


On the Level

by twopoint



Category: Weiss Kreuz
Genre: M/M, Schwarz - Freeform, weiss kreuz - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-17
Updated: 2009-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:09:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twopoint/pseuds/twopoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A drabble in two parts.  The problem being that Schuldig is never oblivious and Crawford doesn't do angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Level

**Author's Note:**

> written for nayiad

1\. **Unrequited**

 

"I have no fucking idea what you're talking about," Schuldig says, and stares at Crawford with such a sense of genuine confusion that Crawford almost laughs.

Crawford's so busy roping in his humor that he fails to notice Schuldig leaving until he's left alone with the echo of the door slamming. One person shouldn't be required to see everything, but Crawford does know what comes next. He reaches for the phone before it rings. "Where are you going?"

"The kitchen."

"Get back in here."

"It's easier to talk to you if I don't have to look at you. I have a thing for voices."

Crawford catches himself from saying, I know. He changes his tone. "When I asked if you had any plan to keep slithering off to wherever you're going in the middle of the night, it was an indirect order to stop."

"I got that much," Schuldig says and Crawford hears him opening and closing the refrigerator. He has a brief image of Schuldig's hands, memory, not premonition. He rests the phone on his shoulder and begins to arrange the papers on his desk.

"Do you have any plans to stop?"

"And I answered you. Yes, if you feel that it complicates things. Yes. If . . ." Schuldig pauses and Crawford can hear his breath. . . "If you're just doing it to get off on your control thing, then the answer's no. You've always let me do what I want; I don't know why you've picked now to get all concerned."

Crawford doesn't answer him, but rushes forward to the question that had Schuldig storming from the room. "Who are you seeing?" Because Crawford can't see it, and that omission has been steadily eating away at his mind for three weeks until it's all he thinks about, a constant speculation. So, yes, Schuldig's nocturnal wanderings are bad for business.

Schuldig is silent, but Crawford hears the bang of a coffee mug against the counter. He hears it at two levels: the sound through the phone and the quieter sound through the closed door. This is how they operate, and Crawford doesn't care what Schuldig does, as long as he knows everything.

"Who are you seeing?" Crawford repeats for the third time in a tone of voice that promises the fourth will be accompanied by the release of a safety. He rises and crosses the room, but his hand is barely on the door handle when Schuldig speaks.

"No one."

"No one?"

"No one. I walk, or go have a drink or go see what people are up to. The middle of the night's good for that sort of stuff."

Crawford doesn't realize how much he was holding his breath until he rests his forehead against the door and breathes. He wants to say, Good, but he does not. His thumb presses against the door latch, but not enough to open it. "Stick close for a while," he says instead, and then adds, "something might happen."

"Like what?" Schuldig asks, and Crawford hears him again on two levels: the voice in his ear and the voice, close, on the other side of the door, too close. He imagines, not for the first time, what it would feel like to have both at once, Schuldig's voice in his ear and the rush of his breath against his neck. It's enough to make Crawford doubt his order; maybe it would be best for Schuldig stay away in the middle of the night. Even the most tempting inevitability can be changed.

"Like what?" Schuldig repeats, nothing between them but the door.

Crawford's forehead is still pressed to the wood. He closes his eyes. "Something horrible."

 

2\. **Requited**

"Where the fuck have you been?"

"We're back to that again, are we? Isn't it past your bedtime?" Schuldig removes his shoes with the careful deliberation of the professionally intoxicated.

Crawford had waited up for hours and had just decided to undress and deal with Schuldig in the morning when he heard the front door click. As it is, he stands with his shirt untucked, unbuttoned, as he glares at Schuldig across the room and considers his next approach. He can never see a timeline when it comes to Schuldig, just a series of actions if he's lucky, hindsight if he's not.

He crosses the room and Schuldig's eyes widen for a blow that doesn't come. Schuldig's long coat hangs off his shoulder; Crawford pushes it the rest of the way down to the ground and wraps his hands around Schuldig's neck, hard enough to be threatening, to have the means to pull Schuldig closer, but the message is ruined by the way Crawford's thumbs trace the line of Schuldig's jaw before their mouths meet like a train wreck, inevitably, disastrously.

Everything is avoidable, Crawford thinks, everything but this because he's wanted to claw his way past Schuldig's skin for months, but Crawford has never wanted anything he had to ask for.

Schuldig's surprise tastes like thirty year whiskey, and Crawford briefly wonders what unfortunate victim Schuldig tempted to buy it for him. Crawford's jealousy is sharp but brief, because Crawford doesn't taste anything other than whiskey and smoke. "You must learn to listen to me," Crawford says against Schuldig's throat, but it doesn't come across as the order he hoped for.

Harsh fingers pull on Crawford's hair; drag his head up so there is some space between them. Schuldig licks his lower lip and studies Crawford's face. "You need to learn to be direct."

"I'll consider that," Crawford says and goes for Schuldig's mouth again because the way their tongues meet is a rhythm well-practiced in thought and the sharp press of Schuldig's hip bone where Crawford's pulled his shirt up reminds him of something, and the jolt of the wall against Schuldig's back seems to be as good a place to start as any.

And then Crawford's thoughts are so muddled by the feel of Schuldig's skin beneath his hands, finally, and Schuldig doesn't seem to be in a hurry to fight him off, that he's somehow on his knees between Schuldig's legs on the floor of the entry hall before he senses another voice at the surface of his thoughts. A familiar voice that matches the cadence of Schuldig's breath near his ear as he leans in closer.

If Crawford doesn't bow to ask but still gets what he wants, he might be able to make allowances. Even if, he realizes, this will always be on two levels; the breath and the voice separate.

"Watch what you're doing," Crawford warns, which could be in reference to Schuldig's teeth on his throat or Schuldig's voice in his head, or both.

Schuldig draws back to watch Crawford's face as his hand finishes with Crawford's belt and zipper. Crawford braces his hands to either side of Schuldig's head against the wall.

"If we're going to go about this sideways, as usual, this is what I want," Schuldig says.

A sudden image flares up in Crawford's mind, short-lived, almost gone before it starts, but Schuldig's meaning is clear. Unwittingly, Crawford moans and shifts back to finish with Schuldig's pants, dragging them down his hips. Schuldig's fingers barely touch the head of Crawford's cock before he's shifting his hand back up, slowly, up Crawford's waist, to his chest beneath the shirt that's still hanging from Crawford's shoulders, up Crawford's neck, across his chin and then pressing to Crawford's mouth, a single finger, tapping his bottom lip.

"My terms," Schuldig says, as he stares hard and waits for Crawford to make up his mind.

"Would you be opposed to making a habit of this?" Crawford asks. He asks, and is shocked at how the words don't burn his tongue.

"A habit of you sucking me off? Of course I . . ." Schuldig laughs, but a well placed palm cuts him off; Schuldig pushes up into Crawford's hand.

"All of it," Crawford says, and thinks several suggestions as loudly as he can in case Schuldig's mind is too addled for subtlety.

"Oh, fuck . . . decisions." Schuldig's eyes are closed, but his mouth is turned up in a half smile, and that, Crawford has seen before. He uses his own mouth to change the shape of it, letting suggestions trail through his thoughts, some lingering, some quick – he's had quite a long time to think about it, longer than Schuldig, apparently, who finally gives up, biting at Crawford's lips, clawing at his shoulders, allowing his will to bend, just enough for Crawford to get what he wants.

And in the end, it is Crawford whose back is pressed against the wall and Schuldig's lips are dragging up his cock, and Crawford finally sees that in certain circumstances it is necessary to make allowances.


End file.
